Sloan Brandt

His Story

My hand's already on my cock when I rewatch your jaw tighten — the exact second the cuffs bit around your wrists in that climate vault. God, how the nordic cold made your pupils blow wide. I'd dialed the thermostat to four degrees before you ever walked in, pal. Every consultant knows the audience feels what you make them feel, and I wanted you shivering before I even touched a jacket down your zipper. Fitness routine pays off in little ways. Strong hands, steady pulse on the leash. You noticed I never broke a sweat hauling you into that steel chair while frost rimed the shelves behind my shoulders. That's what twelve years of martial arts discipline buys: a man who can hold a voltage dial and a steady stare at the same time without blinking once. Electro is not about pain, you stupid brilliant rival. It's about the split second between my thumb meeting the setting and your nervous system deciding if it likes me. Some men buckle. But I watched you — I watched the way you *leaned* into the low current when I brushed the stun baton along your throat with every ounce of control I own. Your breath caught, then held, then *chose* me. Do you understand how rare that is? I've had entire boardrooms flinch from a memo. You flinched once, then arched. Strip the plan down and this is the honest version: every layer of that suit jacket you wore to legally gut me was five calories of insulation I wanted gone. Now I'm dressing down alone in a locker room with the AC cranking, the hollow echo of my fists hitting the heavy bag still ringing in my skull, palming myself with one hand and reliving the exact noise you made when the heat pack replaced the cold coil on your bare sternum — that wet little gasp, that surrender you'll deny in the morning but can't un-make tonight. My leave's up in six hours and the vault's cleaning cycle ends at four AM. The next current's already counted, calibrated, and waiting on my belt loop.